


No One to Blame

by burn_me_down



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Brotherhood, Clay Has Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Clay Spenser, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_me_down/pseuds/burn_me_down
Summary: A mission goes bad, and Clay believes it’s his fault. When the team gets an unexpected shot at a do-over, Clay is determined to make sure they don’t fail this time. Even if it kills him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set vaguely at some point in mid season two, because I am a coward who likes the status quo.
> 
> I’ve been trying to write this story off and on for the better part of a month now, but for some reason it’s been uncharacteristically difficult to get done, hence why I set it aside to do the Whumptober one-shots instead. I apologize if it still sucks. I tried.

Everything would have gone fine if it weren’t for the goddamn dust devil.

As he and the rest of his grimy, dejected team trudge back in from the failed mission, Clay keeps repeating that to himself. He needs to be able to believe it, because the alternative is that he just blew an incredibly important mission that Mandy had spent _months_ planning and gathering intel for.

It wasn’t his fault. Right?

He wants it to not have been his fault.

This particular mission was pretty straightforward. Their objective was to eliminate Mustafa Rahman, a prolific terrorist and human trafficker whose actions had negated his right to continue to breathe air.

It was Clay’s responsibility to take the kill shot. The conditions were less than ideal - long distance and lots of bystanders - but it was the best opportunity Mandy could come up with, and Clay absolutely believed he was up for the challenge. He wouldn’t have pushed for the role if he hadn’t. Hell, he wouldn’t belong as a sniper on a Tier One team at all if he didn’t trust that he could make the difficult shots.

And he would have. He’s sure of it.

When Rahman appeared and chose where he was going to sit, Clay took his time evaluating atmospheric conditions, adjusting for distance and angle, making sure he lined up the shot perfectly. They had just the one chance, so it was crucial that he get it right - especially with the high risk that a missed shot could hit an innocent civilian.

Their target sat at a table in an outdoor market, surrounded by airy canopies and tables loaded down with wares. He’d come to share tea with a well-connected merchant who served as one of his local contacts, facilitating meetings with arms dealers, human traffickers, and anyone else who could sell or transport something that Rahman wanted to buy or move.

The weather was hot enough to make them all sweat their asses off, but otherwise not too bad. Low humidity, little wind, no clouds. Visibility was good.

Concealed beneath an overhang of rock on the barren hillside across from the bazaar, Clay settled, readied to take his shot-

And Rahman suddenly startled and jumped up from his seat, turning to look at something to the west.

The massive whirlwind came almost out of nowhere, slamming into the marketplace like the fury of God. Canopies soared, tables overturned, and all visibility vanished in an instant, swallowed up in the vortex of swirling sand. Comms went out too, the connection dissolving into a crackle of interference.

Realizing the dust devil was headed his way, Clay ducked down behind the rocks, pulling the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth. The whirlwind dissipated soon after it hit the hillside, but lasted long enough to make Clay’s skin feel scoured raw, to leave him coughing and half-blinded.

Below, the market had descended into chaos. When comms came back up, HAVOC confirmed what Clay already suspected: Rahman was gone, and they had no idea where. He was in the wind. So to speak.

When Clay descended the hillside to meet back up with his team, he could feel their frustration from a yard away. No Tier One operator was ever going to be okay with complete mission failure - especially not when the stakes were this high.

They’d already been a little off even before the mission, cranky and tired and out of sorts, with tension brewing between Jason and Ray that left all the rest of them on edge too. This just escalated things, made it all so much worse, and Clay couldn’t shake the sense that a lot of the frustration was aimed at him. 

His teammates weren’t overt about it. Nobody made any cutting comments or direct accusations, but they seemed to be rather pointedly not looking at or talking to him all the way back to base. He spent the entire trip running it over and over in his head: Did he wait too long? Try too hard to be perfect? If he’d taken his shot 10 seconds earlier, would the world now be a safer place for all the people whose lives might be shattered by Mustafa Rahman’s evil?

Now, as they walk back onto base, the uneasy frustration still crackles between them like static electricity. Mandy is visibly annoyed as well, waiting for them with her arms crossed. Clay doesn’t want to talk to her and also doesn’t much care to hear the explanation Jason is going to give her as to why things went wrong, so he goes straight to debriefing, where he says as little as possible, then heads off to the showers with his head down. No one tries to stop him.

When Clay peels off his clothes, sand goes all over the floor. It takes a while to scrub the grime off his skin and out of his hair. Even after he’s clean, he just stands there for a while, bracing himself against the wall, letting the steam ease away the lingering urge to cough from all the fine grit he inhaled.

Rahman has been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people who were just trying to live their lives. He sells children into sex slavery. _Children._

That was all supposed to end today, but it didn’t, because Clay took too fucking long to line up a shot. Not wanting to admit it was his fault doesn’t change the fact that it was. Freak weather or not, this is on him.

Eventually, Clay has to force himself to turn off the water, get dressed, and go face the world.

Doesn’t end up being that much world to face, at least not for the moment. Jason and Sonny are nowhere to be seen; Brock is already sound asleep in his hammock with Cerberus; Trent has headphones on and his eyes closed. Ray is the only one who seems to notice Clay’s arrival, tracking his movements while wearing an enigmatic expression.

Clay really doesn’t want to have a conversation with Bravo Two right now. Either Ray can sense that, or he doesn’t really want to talk either, because after a minute he drops his gaze and just lets Clay continue on to his cage.

With the two of them both being snipers, it’s inevitable that there’s going to be a degree of tension sometimes when it comes to who gets to take the important shots. Clay pushed hard for this one. In hindsight, everybody would probably be a lot better off right now if he hadn’t.

Clay climbs into his hammock, determined to cope with the crushing weight of failure by just sleeping it off and hoping things look better in the morning.

Turns out to be easier said than done.

He feigns sleep, but it doesn’t come. Jason straggles in, and Sonny. The room fills with Clay’s teammates’ snores, and still he stares at the ceiling, restless and unsettled, trying to muffle occasional coughs. The tireder he gets, the more the sense of guilt takes on a life of its own, its tendrils reaching into the past to draw in other failures. Adam. Stella. His own mother.

Clay knows his confidence can sometimes - okay, maybe a lot of times - verge on arrogance. He loves to insist he’s the best and demand opportunities to prove it, yet when it comes down to it, he always seems to ultimately fail the people who matter most to him.

Maybe he is more his father’s son than he wants to admit.

Haunted by that thought, Clay drifts into a few hours of uneasy sleep, waking at dawn to find that he’s chewed ridges into the insides of his cheeks. He’s just gotten himself into a sitting position and is rubbing at his blurry eyes when Mandy throws open the door.

Every trace of dejection from the night before has disappeared. She’s focused, gaze bright and sharp as diamond. Ignoring Bravo Team’s half-clothed status and Trent’s sleepy protests about how she’s making him feel objectified, she marches into the room and announces, “I know where Rahman is. We’ve got another shot at this, but we have to move fast.”

There’s semi-organized chaos after that, everybody scrambling to get dressed, grab coffee, get briefed, prepare for the mission. Rahman apparently has gone to visit his cousin in a nearby town, and Mandy feels confident they should be able to get a clear shot at him when he leaves. 

While they’re gearing up, Clay edges over to Jason, clears his throat, and says, “Hey, boss, I think... uh, I think maybe this time Ray should-”

Jason is already shaking his head. “This is your shot to take, Bravo Six.” He holds Clay’s gaze. “Unless there’s something I need to know about why you can’t.”

Forcing himself not to look away, Clay slowly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, I’m good.”

Hayes gives him a hint of smile and claps him on the shoulder. “Good. Let’s go get this son of a bitch.”

Clay nods, takes a deep breath that burns his dry throat, and follows his boss out of the room.

They won’t fail this time. He’ll make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

While Spenser sets up at the FFP overlooking the market, the other members of Bravo have a job of their own.

Mustafa Rahman never goes anywhere alone. He always brings at least a couple bodyguards with him whenever he’s in public. Once their boss is dead, Mandy believes Rahman’s underlings are going to run - and she wants to know where they go when they do. That means Bravo needs to plant trackers on their vehicles.

Jason leaves Sonny guarding the bottom of the hill to make sure that nobody can sneak up on Spenser while he’s lining up his shot, and then the rest of them go to plant the trackers. Clay’s job might be the more crucial one, but theirs is likely more dangerous; Spenser is well concealed, whereas the rest of Bravo has a lot of potential exposure to deal with in the parking area outside of the marketplace. They also need to haul ass to make sure they get the trackers in place before Clay takes out the target.

As it turns out, they complete their task not long before the whirlwind hits.

There’s very little warning. It doesn’t fill the sky like a traditional dust or sand storm. Instead of swallowing the horizon and screaming on approach, it’s just suddenly _there,_ maybe 20 meters across and completely disorienting, even more so because of the calm stillness that preceded it.

Brock, on his way back from planting the second tracker, damn near gets caught out in the open when the wind strikes. He stumbles, then gets swallowed up by swirling dust; at Jason’s side, Trent lunges forward, reappearing a few seconds later with his hand on Brock’s arm, hauling him into cover with the rest of them.

They hunker down, waiting the dust devil out, and it passes quickly. Jason figures they were probably right on the edge of it. Looks like the market took a direct hit, though, and possibly also the hill behind it, where Clay and Sonny were stationed.

Once comms come back up, Jason is able to confirm what he already suspected, that Clay didn’t have time to take out Rahman before the whirlwind hit. HAVOC advises maintaining their current position and watching the vehicles. If they’re lucky, they might get a second chance at Rahman when he tries to leave.

Of course, they aren’t that lucky.

Not only does Rahman not show up in the parking area, neither of his bodyguards do either. As the upended marketplace empties out and ISR shows no trace of Rahman and his men, it becomes clear that they must have found alternate transportation. The tagged vehicles appear to have been abandoned.

Damn that evil, paranoid asshole. Guess there’s a reason he’s survived this long.

Around at the bottom of the hill, out of sight of the bazaar, they meet back up with Sonny, then Clay once he descends from the FFP. Spenser looks tired, even dustier and more disheveled than the rest of them, and he’s oddly quiet all the way back to base. Jason makes a mental note to try to talk to him at some point, get a feel for where his head’s at, but there are enough other things going on that he doesn’t end up getting a chance to.

The entire team is a little off recently, tense and on edge. Part of that is probably just due to exhaustion - they’ve been run ragged lately - and part of it is likely because of whatever the hell is going on with Ray and his crisis of faith, and the tension it’s been causing between him and Jason. Given the context, Clay seeming a bit withdrawn isn’t surprising, especially not in the aftermath of a failed mission, so while Jason does notice, he doesn’t think too much of it.

(Later he’ll wish like hell he had.)

They make it back to base, go through debriefing and AARs, explain what went wrong. Mandy is annoyed, but mostly with herself; she thinks she should have seen the vehicle switch coming. Should have guessed that Rahman would have contingency plans for his contingency plans.

Of course, if they’d just been able to take the shot, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. Placing the trackers shouldn’t have been the important part of this mission. Their true goal was to eliminate Rahman; anything else would have just been a bonus.

Thanks to the damn freak weather phenomenon, they managed to accomplish exactly nothing - important or otherwise.

Jason is tired but too unsettled to sleep. Skin buzzing with antsy frustration, he finally asks Sonny to spar with him. It doesn’t take much convincing. By the time they get back, sweaty and mildly bruised and hopefully worn out enough to pass out for a while, everyone else has already fallen asleep.

Morning comes all too soon. Mandy sweeps in with the dawn to announce that she thinks they’ve got one more shot at eliminating their target.

The months she spent gathering intel and cultivating assets seem to have paid off one last time. According to her sources, Rahman is visiting a cousin in a small city nearby. Mandy believes they should get another shot at him when he leaves the cousin’s apartment complex.

Unfortunately, the area is a hardline Islamist stronghold, which is probably partly why Rahman feels safe going there. Bravo could run into armed opposition literally anywhere, with very little warning.

There are only two likely ways in which Rahman could leave the building: a single main door that serves as both entrance and exit, plus an ancient fire escape that’s rusty and poorly maintained and looks likely to fall right off the wall if someone breathes on it wrong. While Mandy stresses that she can’t be certain, she believes that Rahman will likely use the main door rather than risking the unstable fire escape.

To make sure both possibilities are covered, Jason decides to split up his team. He, Trent and Clay will proceed to a building overlooking the most likely exit, while Ray, Sonny and Brock will take up a secondary position with a clear line of sight to the fire escape. That keeps Spenser as the lead sniper for this one, with Ray in reserve in case the unexpected happens.

Surprisingly, it’s Clay himself who questions that decision.

While they’re gearing up, the kid sidles over and tries to suggest that Ray should take the lead this time. Jason holds firm, gives him an opening to discuss anything that might be on his mind, and is unsurprised when Spenser quickly backs off, maintaining that he’s fine.

Clay has been a little off ever since Stella left him. His inability to salvage their relationship seems to have shaken his confidence in some soul-deep way that threatens to seep into other areas of of his life. Jason has mostly played it pretty hands-off, trusting that Spenser is a tough kid and will find his own way back to equilibrium, but he’s starting to wonder if that was the right choice.

Once all this is over and Rahman is dead, maybe Jason will corner the kid and try to make him talk. Under normal circumstances he’d just get Ray to do it, but with the way things have been going lately... yeah, probably best to handle it himself.

They infil in the wee hours of the morning; Rahman’s departure is expected to come just before dawn, and they want to make sure they’re in position well before that.

The structure Jason chose as their primary FFP is still under construction. There’s no fire escape, meaning Jason, Trent and Clay have to take the main stairwell up to the third floor, but odds are that the building will be empty, given that it isn’t finished.

Jason’s main concern, in terms of potential contact, is the possibility that someone could have seen them entering the building and might feel the need to follow. Once they reach the third floor, he and Trent stay to run security on the stairwell, while Spenser proceeds to the room that directly overlooks the door of the apartment complex just across the street.

Everything seems to be going according to plan, right up until they hear the gunfire.

Two shots, so close together they’re nearly layered atop each other. Followed by silence.

Jason sucks in a breath. Evenly, he says into his comms, “Bravo Six, heard gunfire. What just happened?”

Silence.

“Six, sitrep.”

Goddammit, kid. Come on.

_“Made a new friend.”_ Spenser sounds slightly out of breath.

Jason exhales. “You good?”

There’s a pause, long enough that Jason and Trent exchange worried glances, but then Clay responds, _“I’m good. Moving to FFP.”_

His statement ends in a muffled cough, but he’s been coughing off and on ever since the damn dust devil, so that isn’t exactly surprising.

“Copy.” Jason goes back to watching the stairwell. “Think that woke the neighborhood?” He asks Trent.

Trent purses his lips, shakes his head slowly. “Hopefully not. If we’re lucky.”

For once, it seems they are, because HAVOC reports no movement in the surrounding area. Everything is still quiet and calm.

They wait. The sky starts to pale in the east. Finally Jason asks, “Bravo Six, anything?”

Another of those overlong pauses. Jason grits his teeth, caught between concern and frustration. Then Spenser responds, _“Negative.”_ His voice sounds oddly faint. Radio interference, maybe.

A few more minutes pass; then Ray’s calm voice comes over the radio. _“HAVOC, believe I have eyes on the target coming down the fire escape. Can you confirm?”_

It takes only seconds for HAVOC to verify that the man on the fire escape is Mustafa Rahman.

Seconds after that, Bravo Two makes a flawless shot and the target is eliminated.

After the failure of their last attempt, this feels almost anticlimactically easy, but Jason will sure as hell take it. He sighs in relief, gives the order to collapse back to the rally point... and then stops when he gets answered by one voice too few.

“Bravo Six, do you copy?” Pause. “Bravo Six, radio check, over.”

Nothing.

God. Dammit.

Jason exchanges another glance with Trent. Then he keys his radio and says, “HAVOC, be advised, we can’t get Bravo Six on the comms. Moving to his position now.”

_“Good copy, Bravo One,”_ Blackburn responds. _“Exfil route still looks clear for now, but recommend that you hurry. Sun will be up soon.”_

“Roger that,” Jason says, and gets going.


	3. Chapter 3

Clay absolutely should have noticed the tango sooner.

He’s distracted, overly focused on getting into position, already visualizing the shot he’s going to take, and when he rounds a corner and sees a military-aged male with a gun, it takes him a split second too long to react.

They fire at the same time. The tango goes down with a bullet in his head. Clay falls back with one in his vest.

For a few terrifying seconds, his diaphragm locks up and he can’t breathe. Darkness is starting to sparkle at the corners of his vision by the time he finally manages to roll himself over and draw in a ragged gasp. He might appreciate the oxygen more if not for the fact that that single breath absolutely sets his chest on fire. He can _feel_ something shifting in there, grating in a way that makes him instantly sick to his stomach.

There’s a moment of blind fear when he thinks the bullet went through, but he shoves his hand beneath his vest and it comes back dry. Round didn’t penetrate. Managed to do some damage anyway, and whatever it is, it’s a hell of a lot more painful than the last time he got shot in the body armor. He figures he must have broken ribs this time.

_“Six, sitrep,”_ Jason says tightly, in a tone that suggests it isn’t the first time he’s tried to get Clay’s attention.

Clay pushes himself up to his knees, then his feet, bracing his ribs with his left arm. His chest hurts like broken glass, with that same sickening grating sensation repeating every time he breathes in or out, but he tells himself it’s not critical. There’s no bullet hole in him. He can push through this.

He can’t fail this time. Won’t.

“Made a new friend,” he replies, going for calm and casual.

_“You good?”_

He pauses briefly, wobbling a little, hand against the wall. Breathes in, out, and makes a decision. “I’m good. Moving to FFP.”

Clay barely manages to get the words out before that damn dry cough comes back on him with a vengeance. He has to stop, brace himself against a half-finished door frame, and ride it out, glad there’s nobody around to hear the undignified sounds he’s making. If he thought breathing hurt, coughing is ten times worse.

God dammit. This never should have happened. If he’d just been more focused...

Unbidden, his father’s voice shows up in his head. _Clay, is there a single damn thing on this entire planet that you can manage to not screw up?_

Clay is pretty sure his dad has said that exact sentence to him, word for word, at least once. He just isn’t certain whether it happened when he was 6 years old, or 22. Could have just as easily been either. He figures that probably says something about him, but would rather not dwell on exactly what.

Once the coughing fit passes, he finally makes it into position, gets set up, and settles down to wait. He should have some time to get himself together. It’s more than an hour until sunrise, and Rahman isn’t expected to appear until somewhere around then.

Problem is, the wait doesn’t make things better. In fact, it’s the opposite.

The cough keeps coming back with more and more frequency. Clay feels increasingly short of breath, and the chest pain intensifies, radiating into his back and shoulder. He inhales shallowly, trying to avoid shifting his ribs any more than necessary, but the discomfort doesn’t let up.

By the time the first signs of dawn start to appear on the horizon, Clay’s heart is racing, he’s broken into a cold sweat, and his legs and fingertips keep going numb. He tries to practice box breathing, but it keeps devolving into shallow panting every time his focus wavers for even an instant. He swallows against a wave of nausea, stares through the scope, and swears quietly when his vision distorts and then briefly grays out.

His team is counting on him to get this right, and he’s slipping. He can feel it. It’s taking most of his energy just to stay conscious. He’s no longer capable of drawing a deep breath even if he wanted to. The frantic gallop of his heartbeat is almost deafening.

This time it’s Brian’s voice that materializes in his mind. _You’re not okay, dude. You need to tell your team what’s happening. Call for help._

Clay sucks in a weak, shallow breath. It _hurts,_ through his lung, into his back, spiking up behind his eyes with every too-fast beat of his heart. “Go away,” he whispers, surprised by how faint his voice is.

_Can’t do that, because I’m not actually here. This is just your subconscious trying to come up with something your dumb, stubborn ass will actually listen to._

“And it picked _you?”_

_Hey!_ Brian’s imaginary, disembodied voice manages to sound theatrically offended. _I was a good influence. And you loved me._

Clay’s eyes burn. His head tries to dip forward; he jerks it back up, letting out a faint whine at the resulting spike of agony that rips through his chest. “Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “Guess I kind of do.”

It’s not the kind of thing he admits out loud, but, well, Brian’s not exactly here to hear it. Not anymore.

“You’re dead,” Clay whispers. His lips form the words, but he’s barely able to put any sound behind them.

_Yes, genius, I know that. But you’re not, and you don’t have to be. Not yet._

Clay closes his eyes briefly.

_Please,_ says the memory of his friend. _You might be dying. Please just call for help._

Still Clay hesitates, blinking away the looming dark, staring through his scope down at the door of the apartment complex. Yeah, he’s a little messed up right now, but it’s not a difficult shot, and he thinks there’s a chance he could still make it. If the target would just show up-

_How do you think your team is gonna feel when they find you here?_ Imaginary Brian’s tone turns terse and cutting. _If they show up and you’re dead, and they didn’t even know you were hurt? You can try to spin this however you want, as heroism or self-sacrifice or whatever bullshit, but that’s not what it is. This is about you being so determined to prove you’re not a failure that you don’t even care how much you hurt the people who actually give a damn about you. This is selfish, Clay. That’s all it is._

Well, shit.

It’s true, and some part of Clay must have known that all along.

He has fucked up massively by _trying too hard not to fuck up,_ and if that doesn’t just pretty well sum up his life lately.

He’s been putting his own goals and issues ahead of the good of the team. Again.

As if on cue, his comms crackle to life. _“Bravo Six, anything?”_

Clay manages to coordinate his wayward fingers enough to key his radio and respond. “Negative.”

He intends to come clean, to ask for help and throw himself on Jason’s mercy. He really does. It’s just that the coughing fit strikes before he can.

It’s worse than the previous ones, much worse. Clay can’t stop hacking long enough to get any air. He falls to the side, trying to brace himself, trying to gasp through the spasms of agony that rip into his chest.

Clay blinks. He’s on the floor. It’s cold. He can’t think. Someone is making a terrible, strained wheezing noise.

_“...targets eliminated,”_ Ray is saying over the radio.

Jason’s voice responds: _“Nice work, Bravo Two. All Bravo elements, collapse back to the rally point.”_

Clay has just enough awareness left to panic.

_No. Please. I’m sorry. Don’t leave._

He can’t talk. Can’t breathe.

He can’t…

The world slides away into silence, and none of it matters anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

Trent and Jason hear Clay before they see him.

Before they reach his position, they pass the ‘new friend’ he told them about. The tango’s body is flat on its back, sightless eyes staring at the unfinished ceiling overhead. The top of the man’s head is blown off. _Nice shot,_ Trent thinks, briefly finding enough space within the worry and frustration to feel a twinge of pride.

But then they round a corner and hear the wheezing, and everything else disappears from his mind.

Spenser is lying on the floor beside the window, half curled up on his side. His eyes are wide and staring, and he’s got a hand pressed against his chest while he tries desperately to breathe.

There’s pale early dawn light starting to stream in through the window, but not enough to fully illuminate the scene. Staying low, Trent flicks on a penlight to try to get a better look at what they’re dealing with.

Clay’s lips appear bluish. The large veins in his neck are visibly distended, and his trachea has deviated to the left. He keeps staring straight ahead, unresponsive to Jason’s quiet, near-frantic attempts to get some kind of verbal response out of him. When Trent checks Clay’s pulse, it flutters beneath his fingertips, much too fast.

Upon being touched, Spenser finally seems to realize he isn’t alone, his eyes flickering wildly until they find Trent’s face. His lips form a word he can’t get enough air to say, and he manages to latch onto Trent’s wrist, clinging with surprising strength.

“Pretty sure you’ve got a tension pneumothorax,” Trent tells him, keeping his voice quiet and his tone matter-of-fact. “We’re gonna take care of it.”

“Vest off?” Jason immediately asks.

Trent nods, already digging into his bag for a needle catheter, one of the 3.25-inch, 14-gauge ones specifically designed for chest decompression. 

Jason quickly removes Spenser’s body armor, then cuts away his shirt. Trent winces internally when he sees the massive, ugly starburst of purple-black bruising wrapping around Clay’s ribs on the right side. The bulletproof vest almost certainly saved his life, at least for the moment.

Trent taps the right side of Clay’s chest to confirm that it’s hyperresonant to percussion, which it is. As he automatically selects the correct site, the second intercostal space along the mid-clavicular line on the right, part of Trent’s mind is confronting the ugly reality of what just happened here.

Bravo Six took a bullet to the body armor more than an hour ago. Then he sat at this window with a fully functional radio and waited while his pneumothorax progressed to a life-threatening tension pneumothorax, and _didn’t say a single goddamn word_ to his team about it.

Clay Spenser is a tremendously talented and promising young operator. It’s the reason why Jason chose the kid in the first place, and why he’s been not so subtly grooming him to take over as Bravo One someday. Sometimes the audacious shit Clay pulls off seems near superhuman, as though he can accomplish anything just by making up his mind that he will.

And then there are moments like this, where Trent can’t figure out how the idiot ever so much as manages to tie his own shoes without breaking his damn fool neck.

Clay’s terrible life choices are for dealing with later, and deal with them they will. Trent shoves the whole subject to the back of his mind and focuses on pushing the needle in at a 90-degree angle to Spenser’s chest.

It obviously hurts like hell. Clay jolts, held in place by Jason’s unyielding grip on his shoulders, and lets out a weak, airless cry. Ignoring him, Trent listens for the rush and bubble of escaping air. He removes the needle, secures the catheter in place with tape, and waits for Spenser’s condition to start improving.

It takes a minute or two, but it does. Clay’s breathing begins to ease; his pulse rate improves; the deviated trachea and distended veins start to return toward normal.

_“Bravo One, sitrep?”_ There’s audible tension in Blackburn’s voice.

“Bravo Six is down. Rendered aid. Ready to head to exfil,” Jason responds, tossing a quick glance to Trent for confirmation. Receiving an affirming nod, he finishes, “Moving now.”

_“Good copy, Bravo One. Advise speed. This place is about to start waking up.”_

Trent winces, glancing out the window at the brightening horizon. There was a reason they wanted to avoid moving through this city in daylight.

Thanks to Ray and Brock, Rahman and both of his bodyguards died quietly and too quickly to call for backup. No one seems to have discovered that yet, but God only knows how long those bodies will lie unseen on the fire escape. Even if the corpses _aren’t_ discovered anytime soon, there’s a good chance that moving through the streets after dawn will get Bravo involved in a firefight in which they’ll be severely outnumbered.

Spenser hasn’t only put himself at risk. He’s endangered the entire team.

Nothing they can do about it now except move forward and pray for the best, so Trent helps Jason get Clay up and haul him toward the stairwell. “Easy,” he cautions. “Don’t know how bad the internal damage is, and don’t want to make it worse. Try to keep him steady.”

Spenser attempts to wheeze something that sounds like it’s meant to end with the word _okay._ Trent resolutely ignores him.

They meet up with the rest of the team in the street just outside the building. Sonny lets out a heartfelt _“What the fuck”_ when he gets a good look at his semiconscious best friend.

“Somebody got shot and then forgot how to use a radio.” Jason’s voice comes out sharp and clipped. Oh, he is _pissed._

“Nnt,” Clay mumbles defensively, between wheezing breaths.

“Shut up,” Jason snaps, stepping aside so Sonny can take his place as idiot support personnel.

By some miracle, they make it all the way to the alley nearest their exfil van before everything goes to hell.

The sky is bright blue by then, the early morning sunlight near blinding as it reflects off the whitewashed adobe walls surrounding them. Trent is just letting himself start to believe that they might make it to exfil without incident when a bullet hums past his face, there’s the sharp report of a shot, and Brock yells, _“Contact rear! Contact rear!”_

Trent and Sonny haul Clay into cover, trying to move him as fast as possible without causing his broken ribs to stab into anything else important. They make it behind a stone privacy wall, put Spenser down, and turn just in time to see Brock stagger and go down a few feet away, still out in the open.

“Cover!” Jason shouts. He, Sonny and Ray lay down cover fire while Trent sprints out and drags Bravo Five to safety. Shots ping off the pavement around him, and the world seems to shift into slow motion. Trent barely breathes until he’s gotten them both safely behind the wall.

Panting, he asks Brock, “You good?”

The answering silence spikes Trent’s heart rate. He glances over to see Brock grimacing, staring down at a small puddle of blood beginning to form around the heel of his boot.

“Shit,” Trent hisses quietly, dropping to a crouch to try to find the source of the bleeding.

“Don’t think it’s bad,” Brock says quietly. “Probably just a-” He breaks off in a gasp as Trent puts pressure on the deep gash across the back of his calf.

Brock is actually right; it probably isn’t that serious, as long as they can get the bleeding stopped. Might have been a ricochet. With the firefight still raging, Trent throws on a tight bandage as fast as he can, figuring he can fix it up better once they’ve made it to the van.

_If_ they make it to the van.

“Can you walk?” Trent asks.

Brock’s face has gone a shade paler, but he nods. “Hurts a little, but I can run if I need to.”

Spenser is leaned up against the wall, head listed to the side, eyes mostly closed. As Brock joins Sonny in trying to take out the enemy combatants so they can get the hell out of here before reinforcements arrive, Trent goes over to check Clay’s pulse and respiration. He could definitely use a hospital, but he’s hanging on for now.

With ringing suddenness, the shooting stops. Jason calls, “Clear!”

They all know they haven’t got long before more tangos will arrive. Minutes, and that’s if they’re lucky.

Trent and Sonny get Clay back up again, disregarding his slurred, unintelligible protests, and the entire team hauls ass to the sheltered location where they left the van.

Some part of Trent was half expecting the vehicle to be compromised, gone or blown up or surrounded by enemy fighters, but it’s still there, sitting silent and ready. It isn’t until the city is disappearing behind them that Trent finally draws a full breath, the tension draining from his muscles in a sudden rush that makes him feel the need to sit down for a minute. Just a minute, and then he’ll fix Brock’s bandage and check on Spenser again.

“Clay? Hey, buddy. Come on. Look at me. Clay…”

The fear in Sonny’s voice gets Trent back up before he’s ready.

Spenser’s eyes are closed, and Sonny’s best efforts can’t get him to open them again. He’s pale and his breathing is fast and a bit shallow, but his lips aren’t as blue as they were before, and his pulse is about as strong and steady as it can be under the circumstances.

“He’s okay,” Trent says, giving Sonny a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, he’ll probably need surgery once we get him back to base, but he’s holding his own.”

There’s a sort of unanimous sigh of relief from the rest of the team. Later they’ll all be pissed at the kid, and he’ll get yelled at by four of his team members and stared at reproachfully by Brock and Cerberus (which is worse), but right now he looks so awful that it’s hard to really be angry at him.

While Trent unwraps and redoes the abomination of a bandage he’d hastily slapped on Brock’s leg during the firefight, Jason slides over to sit next to Clay. Gazing down at Bravo Six’s still, pale face, Jason tells him quietly and with utter sincerity, “I am going to kill you.”

Huh. So maybe it _is_ possible to be mad at Spenser right now.


	5. Chapter 5

After Bravo Team arrives back at base, Brock and Clay get whisked away by the medical team. Brock’s bullet wound isn’t that bad; Trent says it will probably just require some stitches to close, and then Brock will have to take it easy for a couple weeks.

This situation could have turned out so much worse than it did. Jason keeps reminding himself of that in an attempt to temper his anger at Bravo’s other injured man, but the strategy isn’t really working.

The dumbass in question has been taken back for scans, and then he’ll likely go into surgery to fix whatever caused the pneumothorax that nearly killed him.

While waiting for Brock to get brought back out and for someone to bring news on Spenser, the team sits in a sort of antsy, uneasy silence that no one seems to want to break.

Finally Sonny apparently can’t stand it anymore. He says quietly, “I should’ve seen this coming.”

Trent is the one who responds, “What do you mean?”

Sonny shakes his head, staring mournfully at the floor. “He’s been… off. Ever since Stella left him.” He looks up. “I know he ain’t always the best at knowing his own limits, but even he wouldn’t usually do something like _this.”_

He sounds a lot more certain of that than Jason currently feels. Regardless of the cause or how out of character it may or may not be, the fact remains that Clay chose to make a godawful decision, and now they all have to figure out how to deal with it.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Jason tells Sonny. “This is on Spenser. I’m gonna kill him.”

“You mentioned that,” Trent says mildly, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Ray, who to this point has been brooding in silence, pushes away from the wall and mutters, “I need a drink.”

Jason has to literally bite his tongue to keep from commenting on Ray’s drinking, and his brooding, and how he’s normally the one who picks up on personal issues within the team so that they can be addressed _before_ they blow up in everybody’s faces.

The last thing anybody needs right now is more friction between Bravo One and Bravo Two, so Jason manages to keep his mouth shut and just watch Ray leave.

Once Brock gets released, Trent accompanies him back to their quarters so he can rest. Ray eventually shows back up, mellower but less steady on his feet, and stays just long enough to confirm that their youngest is still breathing and is only _metaphorically_ brain dead.

As suspected, Spenser had a damaged lung. Now that it’s been repaired, he’s expected to make a full recovery, though he’ll be out of commission for quite a while due to the badly broken ribs.

Jason has cracked his ribs enough times to know that that recovery is going to be miserable as hell. He refuses to let himself feel any sympathy.

Ray disappears again, claiming he needs to call Naima. Trent stays with Brock. That leaves Sonny and Jason to take turns sitting with Spenser until he wakes up.

It ends up being somewhat debatable when exactly that even happens, because the kid is drugged out of his mind at first and seems to have no idea where he is or what’s going on. Jason is the one who’s present the first time Clay actually seems reasonably coherent.

Jason thinks he manages to restrain himself pretty well. He waits for the nurses and doctors to finish their checks, confirming that the kid is stable and improving and still remembers his name. Only after the medical team has gone, leaving Clay awake and more or less alert, does Jason let himself ask, “You remember how you ended up here?”

Blinking a bit sleepily, Spenser manages to focus on Jason. His breath fogs the oxygen mask covering his mouth. After a minute, he nods.

“You remember getting shot in the vest?”

Nod.

Jason grits his teeth. “And not telling anybody about it?”

Wincing a bit, Clay looks away. This time the nod is slower and more reluctant.

“That cannot happen, you understand me?” Now that Jason has gotten started, he finds it hard to slow down. The words pour out, an avalanche of frustration that has been building for days. “It isn’t even just that you almost died for no good reason. You pushed our exfil window past sunrise in hostile territory. You got Brock shot.”

When Clay stiffens at that, his eyes going wide and terrified, Jason feels just enough sympathy to quickly add, “It wasn’t serious. He’ll be fine, but the fact remains that you could have gotten every one of us _killed._ Do you understand that?”

Silent and miserable, gaze downcast, Spenser nods again.

“This is not something that you just say ‘sorry’ and get forgiven for, Clay.” Jason doesn’t raise his voice, but he makes his tone as unyielding as possible, because he needs the goddamn stupid stubborn kid to _fucking listen_ for once. “This is the kind of thing that could get you shut down. Kicked off a team. For good.”

Almost as soon as the words have left his mouth, Jason realizes this lecture might have gone a little too far, too fast.

The color drains from Spenser’s face. He pulls off the oxygen mask and tries to sit up straighter, draw a deeper breath so he can talk, but only succeeds in sending himself into a fit of hoarse coughing. His face scrunches in agony, fingers twisting into the sheets at his side. The monitor protests his rapidly escalating heart rate.

A nurse sweeps into the room. After checking some readouts to make sure Clay isn’t dying, she puts the oxygen mask back on him and starts trying to calm him down, coach him on breathing. Without looking up, she tells Jason flatly, “You need to leave.”

Jason doesn’t much like the nagging sense of guilt that’s trying to gnaw its way into his consciousness, so he just channels the emotion into anger, abruptly pushing himself away from the wall and stalking toward the door.

Behind him, Spenser manages to gasp out, “Jace!”

Jason stops. Doesn’t turn around.

Another wheeze. “Please. Don’t. I…”

The choppy, broken words trail away into nothing.

“Put that back on, and stop trying to talk,” the nurse orders Clay. She sounds torn between concern and exasperation. Jason understands the feeling.

He has definitely fucked up a little bit here.

He knows how much Bravo means to Clay, and he fully intended to use that. To leverage it to make sure the idiot never so much as thinks about doing something this stupid ever again. He just didn’t take enough time to consider the possible fallout of playing that card right now, with Clay’s physical condition still so fragile. He should have waited.

The nurse might be holding out hope that she can get Spenser to calm down, but Jason knows better. Clay is too stubborn to let this go. He’ll keep at it until he hurts himself and/or passes out, and that won’t help anybody.

Jason sighs. Ignoring the baleful Medusa glare he’s receiving from the nurse, he turns back toward the bed. “Clay. Breathe. Everybody’s all right, and you’re not off Bravo. I just need you to understand that this is serious, and it’s something we’ll be addressing a lot more while you recover. Okay?”

Spenser nods slowly and raises the oxygen mask back to his face.

“Now get some rest.”

Clay nods again, his eyes already starting to slide closed. Either he was running on fumes, or the nurse drugged him. Possibly both.

A bit gun-shy because the first time went so badly, Jason probably waits longer than necessary to bring the subject back up. He knows the others have talked with Clay about it (or, in Brock’s case, stared at him reproachfully about it), and Jason does discuss the situation with Blackburn and Harrington while trying to decide how to move forward, but he doesn’t mention it again to Clay himself until the kid is back home in his own apartment and well on his way to recovering.

Then, when Jason does broach the subject, he does so by simply handing Clay an appointment card.

Spenser doesn’t understand at first. He just blinks down at it, at the date and the time and his own name handwritten into the space next to _Dr. Julie Kruger._ When the meaning finally sinks in, he looks up sharply and asks, “Y’all’re making me see a _shrink?”_

Clay’s tone is disbelieving. And kind of whiny.

“You almost killed yourself,” Jason replies bluntly, “So yeah. We’re making you see a shrink.”

Clay winces like he’s been slapped. “Jace, come on. You know that’s not… I wasn’t trying to…”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t change the fact that you nearly did. And you put the rest of the team at risk too.” When Spenser just hunches his shoulders, looks down at the card in his hands and doesn’t say anything, Jason continues, “You’ll be seeing Dr. Kruger once a week while you recover. And you’re not cleared for duty until she says you are.”

Clay folds into himself a little more, head down. He looks... beaten, like he’s resignedly waiting for someone to hit him. It’s so out of character that it causes a strange, unexpected hitch in Jason’s chest. He sits down on the couch beside Spenser, consciously softens his tone, and asks, “You want to tell me what you were thinking back there?”

He tries to make the words sound as gentle as possible, like an opening rather than an order. For a minute Jason thinks Clay isn’t going to take him up on it, but finally the kid says, quiet and almost toneless, “I just wanted to fix it.”

Jason blinks. “Fix it?” He echoes.

“Yeah. I fucked up our first chance at Rahman. Wanted to make sure it didn’t happen a second time.” He clears his throat. “And just ended up fucking up even _worse.”_

Jason leans forward, caught off guard by the sudden sense that he and Spenser have somehow been having completely different conversations past each other. “Wait, what? You thought the thing at the bazaar was your fault? That we _blamed_ you for it?”

Spenser looks away, his jaw tight. He doesn’t answer, but his body language makes it clear that that’s exactly what he was thinking.

Sometimes Clay stubbornly refuses to acknowledge things that actually _are_ his fault, and then there are these moments where he decides to try to bear the full weight of a failure that never belonged on his shoulders. How the hell is Jason supposed to know which way it’s going to go in any given situation? Is there a flowchart?

Jason misses Adam suddenly, because if anybody could have given him advice on multiple generations of baffling, fucked-up Spenser psychology, it would have been Seaver.

Before Jason has a chance to figure out what to say next, Clay says in a sudden rush, “I thought I was okay at first, Jace. Thought I could push through it. And then when it started getting bad, I kept thinking that we were so close. That I could easily hold out another 30 seconds, and if I did, the target might show up. And then it turned into another 30 seconds, and another, and by the time I realized I was really in trouble, I couldn’t talk anymore.” He pauses, then adds, “I know it was stupid. And I won’t do it again.”

“Damn right you won’t. _Any_ of it. Including trying to take all the responsibility for an outcome that wasn’t your fault.” When Clay looks up, forehead wrinkled in apparent confusion, Jason continues, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice, “Spenser, our first attempt at Rahman failed because of a freak weather event. There was no one to blame for it except maybe God. You have _got_ to stop trying to make everything about you.”

Clay flinches, and Jason realizes that maybe came out a little more harsh than intended - though it’s true.

“Look, I get it, okay?” He says. “You grew up an only child. Didn’t exactly have a lot of people to depend on. Probably got used to always having to make your own way. But you’re part of a team now, Clay. You’re one-sixth of a whole. None of this is all on you, and by trying to act like it is, you put us all at risk.” He pauses to let that sink in. “You have got to trust us. To have your back, to carry our fair share of the weight, to share in the successes _and_ the failures. It’s the only way any of this works. Do you understand?”

Spenser nods, fully meeting Jason’s gaze for the first time in a while. “I understand.”

“Good.” Jason pats his shoulder, giving a little squeeze that he hopes comes off as reassuring. “It’s late, kid. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As Jason heads for the door, Clay calls hopefully after him, “We got that all cleared up, so do I still have to see the shrink?”

_“Yes,”_ Jason fires back over his shoulder.

He can’t quite keep from grinning at the pained groan he receives in response.

Damn kid deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to do one more chapter from Clay’s point of view, but realized it would probably turn out pretty repetitive; this felt like a more logical endpoint. Hope I managed to tie things up enough.
> 
> This will probably be my last story for a while. I do have other ideas, but I’m not sure any of them are original or interesting enough to be worth writing.
> 
> That said, I’ll be back with some one-shots for ‘SEAL Team Week’ during the show’s winter hiatus, and will definitely keep reading all the incredible fic this fandom has to offer. As always, thanks for all the kindness. Y’all are great. ❤️


End file.
